Or maybe I am a big dick.
Flaccid in the world until there’s passion,
then I grow hard and turn away.
There haven’t been too many complaints.
And they’re not on the negative side. Girth. Space.
I used to have a fuck buddy in PDX. He was huge.
On long weekends I’d drive down.
We’d farmer’s market and brunch, wine and pillow talk.
He took me to see Annie Hall at the classic cinema theatre.
We snuck in 40s.
Woody Allen was never funnier.
I almost told him that I loved him.
Instead I cried leaving Portland.
Now he lives in Minnesota.
My pharmacist knows me by name.
Ever seen a micropenis?
Ended up at a Halloween party with the X.
She ground up on some new something so I did the same.
I turned out to be his second, ever.
He wanted to be boyfriends. Drive hours to see each other.
He jerked off with his index and thumb.
6’9” used to suck dick for meth.
I suck dick just to feel something.
Sometimes, when I swallow, I throw up.
I ignore texts for days. Voicemails longer.
BoneEyes drains my battery.
Used condoms on the sidewalk confuse me.
The man who held me down used extra large condoms.
They kept slipping off.
Had to blow smoke into his face to get him off of me.
6’9” wants to see me be brave.
He doesn’t understand that I’m a grower, not a shower.
C Yoder enjoys clever wordplay and the use of words to create deeper meanings. Poetry should capture the human spirit both in its aesthetic essence but also in the clever, human ability to structure and see the cracks/inequalities in that structure. They’ve been published in Chapman University’s Calliope (placing 1st place for fiction in 2003), UW’s Bricolage, Navigational Tangents, and various other online publications. Other hobbies include: growing tomatoes, writing a cookbook, and travel.